


Hiraeth

by tiamo (rinne)



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Shin Monshou no Nazo | Fire Emblem: New Mystery of the Emblem
Genre: M/M, as well as nyna, mentions of the rest of the wolfguard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 00:19:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13135212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rinne/pseuds/tiamo
Summary: He has never wanted to make him wait, and yet he always has.





	Hiraeth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bhelryss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bhelryss/gifts).



The space that Hardin leaves behind is overwhelming.

It was enough, when Hardin was still with them-- when _Coyote_ was still with them-- to simply stand by his side and aid him in his journeys; it was enough to keep him safe. They had all thought, the four of them, that if they could one day save the man who had saved all of them, it would be _enough_. Those had been the simple days, marked by the plain taste of warm bread in their mouths, Vyland’s hand slamming down onto the table and startling poor Roshea as he glared at Wolf, who had poked fun at his hair yet again with that same deadpan expression he always had, only for the redhead to be cowed into sheepish silence by the look that Sedgar inevitably tosses him, Coyote chuckling under his breath all the while.

  
  


They had called it the end of an era amongst themselves, the day Nyna came. Coyote had been theirs, once, and they had been his-- comrades in arms, and perhaps a family, in a way, were not the notion too ticklish for men of such guarded hearts--  yet they had known, right from the beginning, that they could never keep their savior, and now he was the court’s, now he was Archanea’s, now he was _Nyna’s_ , but they would always be his.

So they had let him go, with fond smiles and the weight of new titles on their shoulders to take away from the emptiness at their backs; it was the only thing they could do. They could not dare to ask him to stay for them-- would never even dream to, not with the way he held the moon in his eyes, looking to Nyna as though she were his sun.

The palace had looked beautiful on the day their Coyote disappeared.

  
  


Perhaps Coyote had known his absence would hit Wolf hardest. The mantle placed upon the newly lauded captain of the Wolfguard was heavier than what his brethren had been given to bear-- a mountain of duties that Wolf met as effortlessly as he always did. There had been a levity about his face, a pride that had sparkled through the depths of the ever churning storm held within his eyes, to be the one Coyote had chosen. To be given something so momentous by the man who saved him, even if that something was a burden with a weight that would suffocate lesser men, was enough to keep him going until he reaches the ends of the earth.

“If I should wander from the path of the righteous, please…”

Hardin had stared solemnly at him, but in the moment after Wolf nods, it is Coyote who places the weight upon his shoulders.

“Lead me back onto it.”

 

It is a shame that day comes far too quickly.

  
  


The four of them-- the Wolfguard (Vyland scoffs at the name)-- would never have dreamed it could happen at the dawn of this new era. There was a glow about Hardin’s face they had never seen before; Sedgar had gone so far as to liken him to a lamb in the spring, and through their chuckles, the rest of them had looked upon their emperor’s helpless smile and found they thought quite the same.  

Lady Nyna, stiff and formal though she may be, is a delight to have around the castle. There is always a worried sort of twist to her brows, a sadness lingering just behind the courteous half smile she always dons, but she is thoughtful in ways that startle them, and kind in others that warm their hearts. Had she been someone different, perhaps they four would have let the sliver of resentment (a small thing they refused to see) fester and foul… But she is nobody but herself, and in all her subtle splendor, they cannot blame Hardin for his choice.

 

One day, when Nyna stands on the balcony overlooking the garden, the sleepy sun painting her hair with the hues of dusk, she confides a secret to him that, for a brief moment, teaches him the weight of her crown.

“I love my people,” she whispers at first, so quietly that Wolf does not know if he was meant to hear it. Her hands tighten on the railing; he does not move from his post. The last vestiges of warmth are draining from the sky when she finds her voice again.

“I would give them everything that I am. I would die for them, if that was what was required of me.”  
And finally, she turns to look at him over her shoulder, tears trailing down her cheeks as strands of faded sunlight cascade over her shoulders, and she seems to almost crumble in the dying light.

 

“But I think… that I have made a grave mistake.”

 

“You are a kind ruler,” Wolf says, when he finds his voice. “Coyote could not have chosen someone better.” It is the highest compliment he can give someone; the gentle upturn of her brows tells him she understands this.

“Wolf… I am so sorry.”

Dusk’s orange glow dies quickly, soon swallowed by the nighttime; the door shuts behind Nyna with a quiet but resounding noise that weighs heavy on Wolf’s heart, and he is left alone in the darkness.

It is the one night of their autumn.

It is Hardin’s fall.

 

The next day, Hardin’s face is steely and cold, with shadows under his eyes that seem to engulf his entire soul.  The change in his demeanor is stark and sudden, and it is as though the springtime they had grown used to had all at once sublimated into winter. There is a space at his side that is empty for the first time in months, and wordlessly, they fill it, hanging about his shadow and trying to fill in the awkward gaps that Nyna left behind. How can they, though, when she still lingers about the castle? It is her home more than it was ever theirs; it is her kingdom.

  
  


Only once does any of them dare to ask what stole the joy from within Hardin’s heart (Roshea, with a fretful brow and a quiet voice). Hardin stares at them for a long moment, something frenzied and tumultuous toiling in his eyes.

 

“She was never mine,” he snarls, and there is a biting edge to his voice that frightens them-- for in that moment, he is not Coyote, nor is he Hardin-- he is simply a man with a pain that he is too weak to temper, and it frightens them.

By the time the door slams behind him, they have looked the other way.

  
  


From that day on, they are blind, covering their eyes when they see the shadows that have stained Hardin’s skin, ignoring the fury that blazes within his eyes. They are deaf, covering their ears when Nyna passes by, afraid to hear the sadness and the hatred (but those voices they can never silence, for they do not belong to the princess with the sad but gentle eyes; those voices belong to their hearts). Yet for all they try to dull their senses, they cannot shut out the pain, taking hold of them and sinking in its claws like a thorny vine creeping ever closer. Perhaps the worst of it is when Nyna is locked away deep within the castle, whispers of a man they’d once called their enemy rising within the halls. There is a resignation in her face that strikes cleanly through them, numbing their fingers and chilling their bones. Roshea’s fingers even slip as he slides the key into the lock, and it takes him far too long to open the door.

“Thank you,” Nyna says, head bowed slightly; the kindness in her voice is so sincere it stings, and Wolf recoils, averting his gaze as he slams the door shut.

That night, he takes the empress her meal, sliding into her room after two short knocks. She looks up as he enters, a small smile crossing her features-- courtesy, he’s sure, though he does not deserve it-- and closes the book in her lap.

“Is that dinner?” Her question is innocent, but the horseman simply sets the tray upon her desk and makes no move to reply. Not even a nod-- it is easier, that way, to pretend he does not see the sadness she tries to hide.

“I did not think I would be allowed any… This is a pleasant surprise.” Nyna manages, somehow, to draw his eyes back to her, the light in her eyes flickering back to life for just a moment as he does; he does not reply.

“Perhaps in the morning, I will ask if I might be allowed a stroll through the garden. With a guard, of course.”  

He does not reply.

“I hear the flowers will bloom soon.”

He does not reply.

“...Tomorrow, Hardin will send me away. I am certain he does not intend for me to come back.”

_He must not reply._

Wolf jerks his head to the side, staring at the door with solemn eyes. He needs to go-- needs to cover his eyes and his ears once more and walk the same path as he always does-- but his feet are leaden and his legs refuse to move. It is all he can do to desperately look away, brow furrowed and teeth grit as reality speaks to him with Nyna’s voice.

 

“Wolf,” she whispers, “I am sorry.”

 

He springs into motion all at once, his head whirling around to face her, a breath sucked sharply into his lungs-- but he does not speak for a long time. He should scorn her, for hurting Hardin, for stealing Coyote away from him and his brethren. He should lash out at her, for having given their savior false happiness, for crushing that fake joy within her palm. He should scream at her, for forcing them to face the truth they cannot bear to witness, for making them waver because _something is wrong and where has Coyote gone and_ **_she doesn’t deserve this_ ** _,_ and he has stumbled in his path.

His expression crumples; he can scarcely breathe.

“I would die for him.”

“I know.” Her voice is so gentle, and his eyes shut of their own accord.

“...I’m sorry.”

The once-princess rises from her seat and reaches for his hand, but the door slams loudly in his wake, and he is gone.

 

In the morning, he silently presses an almost bloom into her hand-- picked too soon, its petals never to unfurl and taste the sunlight--

\--and he leads her to the end.

He does not see her again.

  
  


When the silence swallows up the space Nyna left behind, he finds that it is easier to breathe. He inhales the fury and the loathing that creep about the castle, letting it simmer in his lungs and nodding along to the venom Hardin spits. Of course Prince Marth wants to destroy the Archanea they all hold so dear; everything is as his liege says. (When he covers his eyes, he can no longer remember the light that shone so radiantly from that little prince’s gaze; neither must he try to search for the fire of justice he can no longer find in Coyote’s own.)  Of course Prince Marth wishes to take control of the entire world and smite all who stand in his path. (When he covers his ears, he can no longer hear the stories of heroes spoken in so gentle a voice as he’d passed by in the night, nor does he hear the cold and steely edge of Hardin’s voice that has sloughed away the kindness he most definitely does not miss.) Of course Prince Marth must be executed for the evil he harbors within him, a task that will clearly fall to them. (When he looks to his liege, he can no longer find the man who had saved them all those years ago, but he has chosen his path; it is enough to know that he has lived for Coyote… it is enough to know he will die for Emperor Hardin.)

The truth is so far away that he does not even have to shield his eyes to shut it out (yet he knows it marches ever closer-- can see how the resolution of their steps shake Roshea’s heart from its place already). It is the closest thing to peace that he has known in a long time, and like that, he regains his bearings, marching along the same path he always has. Of course, it is not _really_ peace. How can it be, when the poison of willful ignorance floods his stomach and eats away at his lungs? He is as stone faced as he has ever been, but it does not escape his brethren’s notice when he practices long into the night, his fingers stiff and shaking as he tries in vain to deny his humanity.

_It would all be so much easier if he’d been nothing but a doll._

He curses under his breath when his hand seizes up and the arrow slips from his grasp, dropping pitifully to the ground.

_For the man who saved him, whether he still exists or not…_

He picks it back up, his fingers protesting against the movement.

_He would become a--_

 

“Wolf.”

 

Again, the arrow plummets, but it is Sedgar’s hand that picks it up this time, dangling it out of Wolf’s reach with one hand and placing the other gently upon his shoulder. The harshness that had settled about the captain’s brow lessens at his tone (too gentle, as it always is; Sedgar has always given him kindnesses he never deserved), but there is still a sharpness to the glare he’s stifled beneath a weary sigh. It is impossible to draw him from his practice; his comrades should known better than this by now-- he’d thought they _had_ , but Roshea’s earlier visit and Vyland’s silent, watchful eyes had shown him otherwise.  

 

“That’s enough for the day, don’t you think?” The authority in his vice-captain’s voice peters out, and he reaches for Wolf’s hand. His thumb rubs gentle circles into his palm, easing the tension out ever so slowly. Sedgar holds his hand so tenderly that Wolf forgets everything else, his mouth half open and something unnameable creeping into his shoulders; when Sedgar speaks like that, he almost wants to _live_.

But his life has never been his to live; from the moment Coyote saved him, it had belonged to his liege.

“Just ‘enough’ is not _enough_ ,” Wolf replies quietly, and he hates the warmth that seeps into his chest when Sedgar raises a bemused brow. Tugging his hand out of the other man’s grasp, he reaches for the arrow, but Sedgar is taller and his fingers are reluctant to stretch, and he heaves a defeated sigh. He should have known better than to try to keep something from his venerable vice captain; Roshea is too kind to prod at his sore spots and Vyland hates talk of feelings even more than Wolf himself. But Sedgar? Sedgar needs to know the truth and stubbornly presses for answers until dodging questions becomes too tiresome.

No… Sedgar pushes him when he needs to be pushed, and supports him when he needs to be supported, because that’s just how he’s always been.

“I don’t have to think when I’m training,” he admits, even more quietly. “My thoughts are muddled these days.”

Sedgar lowers the arrow slowly, eyes wide, but Wolf no longer tries to reach for it.

“...Talk to me, then,” he replies, and there it is again: that aching tenderness that makes Wolf’s chest constrict. He averts his eyes quickly, scared to face the warmth he knows is there.

“You know I’m bad at talking.”

“Then let me talk to you.” The response comes so easily, so sincerely caring, so very _Sedgar_ , that when the man holds out his hand, Wolf begins to reach for it--

\--but he remembers the bloom picked too soon (how could he forget?), too delicate within his palm, and acid fills his lungs--

\--and he pulls his hand back.

 

“I’ll be fine.”

He swipes the arrow from Sedgar’s hands, his own stiffly twirling it around. The silence is stifling, for once, filled with Sedgar’s sorrow and feelings a toy soldier has no place for; it is only when his vice captain-- his _friend--_ begins to leave that he finally stops him.

“...I’ll be more careful.”

He does not have to look up to know that Sedgar is smiling.

“...Thank you.”

 

The day Marth’s army touches the soil of Aurelis once more comes too soon (days always seem to come too soon, now), and Wolf leads his brethren to battle with fire in his eyes and red hot blood in his veins (and he does not care if it stops flowing). It is almost a relief when arrows sink into his shoulders and his comrades disappear one by one, seduced by the banner of a prince carrying out the justice Coyote once dreamed of.

But they are not content to let him die in peace, cast away like the toy soldier he was meant to be, and Sedgar reaches for him even when Wolf readies an arrow they both know will never make its mark.

“Do you remember,” he says, because he knows only his voice will reach Wolf’s ears, “What Coyote said to you, the day you became commander of the Wolfguard?”

The bow slips from his hands, and his fingers go cold. It’s ironic, how he freezes up only once he’s forced to realize his own humanity.

Because he is no longer the toy soldier he had always made himself out to be.

Sedgar makes him _human_.

 

“For goodness’ sake,” he whispers, breathless, his fingers curling into his palms and digging into his skin to draw away from the shiver settling along his spine. “It would have been better if I had died at Adria Pass…”

 

Sedgar says nothing, and follows him in silence.

  
  


The days pass in a haze after that, his thoughts muddied by the bile ever biting at his throat, the guilt that drives his fingers to dig into his skin until he bleeds, the fire of hatred in his chest that fills his lungs until he can no longer breathe.  It is only on the battlefield that he is himself, but he still isn’t, not really; the bite of his blade is too furious, driving forward even when a lance impales itself in his shoulder (how dare they _miss_ , when they had come so close-- how dare they not silence that godawful beating within his chest), and he **_screams_ ** . _It isn’t fair_ , he thinks, his sword buried deep within the failure’s chest. _It isn’t fair_ , he thinks, the blood sticky on his hands, washing everything in scarlet. It simply isn’t fair, he thinks, and someone (Roshea?) pulls him back, and-- is he crying? He thinks he might be crying-- and then

  
  


And then

 

And then

 

And then

  
  
  
  


Coyote is dead.

 

He has left Marth’s army behind by sunset.

 

When he makes it home, Wolf finds a mountain of duties that he meets as effortlessly as he always did before; the busywork keeps his thoughts elsewhere, stills the anxious jitter that sometimes creeps into his fingertips. Some would say it keeps him sane.

Those some do not know Sedgar.

It is Sedgar whose fingers tap Wolf’s shoulders in the dark of night when the candlelight glows dim, whisking away his paperwork with a fond smile whose grasp upon Wolf’s heart is so strong and yet so tender that for a moment, he cannot remember how to breathe. It is Sedgar whose hands pry the parchment from his grasp and set it gently upon the desk. It is Sedgar, and Sedgar alone, who still believes Wolf will one day be okay.

He could love him, if he were better.

But though Sedgar can make him human, Wolf wishes to stay the same broken toy soldier he has always been. How could he ever forgive himself, after all, if he forgot who his life belonged to in the first place? And how could he dare fashion himself a person when the wounds he’d dealt had been simply inhuman? (No matter the number of flowers growing quietly on the corner of his desk, he cannot ever replace the one bloom picked too soon)

 

So he brushes Sedgar’s hands away with a gentle smile in the nighttime, and seeks the salvation of a coffin in the morn. Death does not come easily to him, though; he is the captain for a reason, after all. His sword is always fastest, his arrows always true-- what foes he could ever hope to strike him are always so quick to lose. Not even when he is reckless do the wounds ever really sting. They graze his face, they nick his arm, but they never meet the mark they seek and that cursed toy soldier’s heart of his beats on and on and _on_.

But when death finally sweeps towards him, it does not pick him to carry off. It picks Sedgar, whose wide green eyes flicker as the arrow lodges in his chest. It picks Sedgar, who smiles as he lurches forward, unfazed by the primal shriek that rips its way out of Wolf’s chest as they both fall to the ground. It picks Sedgar, whose hand is so gentle as he reaches for Wolf’s cheek, breathing ghosts of words he has not the strength to say.

 

It picks Sedgar, who loves a toy soldier, and it picks Sedgar, who would die for him, too.

 

It should have ended with a great monologue, a beautiful speech breathed in too-cold whispers and heartfelt words, the beginnings of rain to wash away the blood that should have never been and hide the tears Wolf never knew he could cry.

But Sedgar’s hand goes slack, a spatter of blood smeared across Wolf’s cheek in the sunlight--

“You better keep me waiting,” Sedgar laughs--

And it ends

Just

Like

That.

 

And Wolf makes him wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Hiraeth** ( _noun_ ): a homesickness for a home you can't return to, or that never was.


End file.
